


haunt me in my sleep

by Prince_Of_The_Night



Series: battle cry on your lips, army at your fingertips [2]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied Kurosaki Ichigo/Inoue Orihime - Freeform, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Sequel Unofficial Precursor to a Bleach Fic I Want To Write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:31:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_Of_The_Night/pseuds/Prince_Of_The_Night
Summary: All he knew was etched and carved into his bones like star-born litanies of grief.





	haunt me in my sleep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chiapetirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiapetirl/gifts).



> Shout out to chiapetirl for encouraging me to expand on “All We Know”. The actual story that this and AWK preface will be going into the works soon as a part of the “battle cry on your lips, army at your fingertips” series. I hope you look out for it.
> 
> I’d also like to make a short note: I am aware of Isshin’s motives behind how he treated Ichigo. I think it could be a really fun time to break that mentality down and show more of the better side to that. However, I also find intrigue in the negative effects it could have had on Ichigo. This will likely be brought up in other works of this series, if I continue on and get around to writing that one planned Bleach fic.

_ Down in that darkness  
_ _ You met all the things you feared _

* * *

 

All he knew was etched and carved into his bones like star-born litanies of grief. It left him caught, torn and twisted up inside until he felt like the child he hadn’t been in over two decades. It shocked him just a little bit that he had made it this far. There were a countless number of times when he thought he’d die.

When he was nine, when his mother died and he had to pretend like he didn’t stay awake all night drowning in the feeling of her blood pouring down and dousing his skin. When he was fifteen and a monster he didn’t understand ripped through his house like damp paper. When the war finally came down to it and the world felt barren and hopeless, like they would never — could never — beat Aizen.

There was a lot of things Ichigo Kurosaki remembered, and not all of them were bad. But enough of them weren’t good either.

Right now, Ichigo remembered a wedding. He remembered Orihime in white, how pretty she was, how much she looked like an angel. And then he hated himself for finding the memory sad. But it was, almost.

There were a lot of things that felt dismal these days.

At age 32, Ichigo Kurosaki sat by the river he hadn’t visited in years and decided it was enough. He was tired, tired of the too vivid visions of death that came to him in the dark of night, tired of the title “war hero”. He was tired, just tired.

It was incredibly easy to find that old, out of the way shop again. The one that sold odd candies to middle schoolers and old, traveling couples. It still looked the same, a dusty white and brown building tucked away with shoji doors that held glass in the panes instead of paper. There was still a van to the side, though it was a newer one since the previous one had been crushed in a hollow attack years ago. And there was still the same, dark haired girl out front too, sweeping dust off the porch. She’s older now, her smile a little warmer and more familiar when she looked up.

“Hello, Kurosaki-san,” she said as he wandered past. He paused to pat her head, the ache to be able to do it to Karin writhing under the pads of his fingertips. Their likeness was uncanny, but Ururu only squeaked and hurried to finish sweeping where Karin would have hit him for it.

It made him miss his little sisters all the more.

Kisuke Urahara was still very much the same when Ichigo found him. He leaned against a shelf, looking like he hadn’t changed a day, all geta and paper fans and irritating smiles. But none of it matters anymore because Ichigo knows how to read his eyes now, and Kisuke is as untouched by the war as any of them.

“How can I help you today, Ichigo-kun?” Kisuke asked, ten-and-some years of war coating his voice in warm familiarity. “Not abandoning Inoue-chan, now are we? Think of how much she’d cry.”

It shouldn’t have make him smile, but it did. Instead, he said, “I need help, a second chance.” He didn’t sugarcoat it and neither did Kisuke. The blond man didn’t dance them around questions like ‘why’ or the like.

“How so?” he asked instead. Ichigo told him and, only slightly, reveled in the rare sight that was a startled and bewildered Kisuke. “Well, I don’t know if I can help you there,” Kisuke said, “There  _ are _ things that even I—”

Ichigo cut his friend off. He wouldn’t let his old mentor lie to him like that. “We both know that isn’t true,” he said.

Kisuke sagged. “Very well.” He turned, ushering Ichigo into a back room and onto a cushioned tatami mat. Ichigo had no final worries, only resolve, and he knew Kisuke was aware of that.

“Do well, Ichigo Kurosaki,” Kisuke asks of him, “Do well.”

On October 14th in the year 2017, Ichigo Kurosaki died at age 32 and waited for his second chance.


End file.
